


my heart on a trigger

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, OneAM-bound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ethell copes with the absence of her matesprit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my heart on a trigger

He smells like gunsmoke. Gunsmoke, electricity, and dirt-cheap cologne. It's the smell of a rogue, a renegade, _the_ Renegade as he pulls you close against his chest and dips you down, your knee over his hip, your hair just an inch from the ground. He does this, dragging you an inch from a pretend peril and bringing you back again with a flourish, almost like dancing, except there's no music. He twirls you around with an impish grin, slick like oil, then draws you close with his hands on your hips, just barely too high to justify a smack. He's being awfully playful tonight, just a pinch too sweet with his words. His actions are so unjustifiably romantic that he's probably curdled the milk just by being there. You know he's up to something, because he only ever acts _this_ way for one reason.

"Who are you robbing this tide, dear?" you ask, completely unfooled. He clicks his tongue against those sharp fangs of his, offering his most innocent smirk (and by innocent, of course you mean the exact sort of smirk that would get a troll of a much higher caste culled and sent straight to hell) and a shrug as he sways your hips for you, unwilling to break that odd not-dance of yours.

"'Course I don't know what you're talking about, Angelfish. Don't you know I'm clean? Straightest troll this end of Alternia, of course," he replies, and you can't help but laugh. Seniko Kamaya, clean? It's the biggest crock of hoofbeastshit you've ever heard, and that's the point. He's fucking around, clearly. Of course, this worries you, just a bit. He only fucks around when it's something he doesn't want you to know, and the only time he doesn't want literally everyone and their lusus to know about his exploits is when it's something dangerous, and he hasn't done it yet. You haven't heard him give you that line since the time he stole the largest gold statue of the Condesce right off its post and replaced with with a note reading, and you quote, '{Before you say I am stoling this statue let me explain you a thing}'. You distinctly remember giving him all the hell you could physically muster, because that had to have been the most ridiculous stunt you've ever seen any one troll pull.

Then again, you wouldn't put anything past him, really.

"Sugarplum, you're going to tell me what you're up to somehow or other, so it may as well be now," you say (you drop your puns, for the sake of seriousness), rolling your eyes at him, and you can just feel him rolling his back, despite his lack of actual pupils. He grins again, this time looking a bit more sheepish and the barest bit sincere (as sincere as a criminal can be, anyway), and raises his hands in front of him, 'I surrender'.

"Baby, baby, it ain't a thing for you to be worrying your pretty little locks over. I got business on the southern upturn, you know. Place with the shit-booze and sexy waitresses."

He pretends not to notice when you stomp his foot.

"Cut and dry, Babydoll. I'll be gone two, three days? I'll bring you back something pretty," he adds, and you can't help but sigh and give off your usual protests at his behaviour. It's all play, really. He knows you don't mean it and you know you couldn't stop him if you did. You read him your customary act, and when he leads you both to the door, you fire off your last line. It's always the same line, and it's always the only one you really, truly mean, because roguish as he is, you always worry.

"And what do I have to tell me that you intend to come back?" you say, arms crossed over your chest. You can almost taste his exasperation, and when he leans in to kiss you, you taste ozone instead.

"Come on, Angelfish, you know I wouldn't leave a treasure like you behind," he says, and you like to think he's right. After all, Seniko Kamaya throws nothing away; he hoards his treasures like the worlds most dangerous packrat and anyone with the faintest information on him knows that. You've heard of kids getting in trouble trying to find where he stashes all his loot (you've seen his lifestyle, and you know damn well that there is no way he even begins to spend all the money he steals, nor does he appear to be funneling it anywhere in particular. He steals for the sake of stealing, and damned if you have any clue why), only to come back empty-handed or worse, with one of his prank letters that he places around abandoned areas specifically to fuck with people. This makes you feel a little better, if nothing else.

"Three days. It'll fly right by,"

~~~

Five days pass, and you don't hear a word. Not a damned peep. You don't receive a single letter. Not one transmission. There isn't even a story in the goddamn newsfeeds. The crime reports give the usual flow of minor misdeeds. Vandalism. Ship-issues. Disturbances in the general peace. Generic, petty crimes; nothing in his particular brand of illegal. The fact is undeniable: No one has seen hide or hair of Seniko Kamaya since he left your library five days prior. You worry, because while it isn't like he's never been late, he normally does send some kind of word, and you _know_ that there is always some sort of indication as to just what he's decided to fuck with in the newsfeeds or crime reports somewhere. But now? Nothing. It's unsettling. It's wrong. It bothers you so much that you misstamp several papers and wind up staying overtime refiling your mistakes. You scold yourself for letting something like this bother you at work. It's only two days. You're sure he's gotten himself into some kind of minor mishap, and he'll be turning up in your office with twice your weight in flowers and apologies any day now.

It isn't like he would leave you behind, right?

~~~

Ten days pass, and you have still heard nothing. Your worry has been eating at you, keeping you up during the day and gnawing at your work at night. It's unprofessional, you know, but honestly, you're a bit irritable. The more time passes, the angrier you get. Not at yourself, but at him. By the time you reach Day Fifteen total in Seniko's AWOL Stunt, you want to wring his stupid neck. It was so sudden. He'd shown no signs of being bored of you; not a lick of spark had faded from your matespritship. You'd been a week from an anniversary, for fuck's sake. And he just leaves. Gone. Poof. Just like that. 

You seethe as you put away your books, smoothing your dress in slightly neurotic intervals and sending sharp glares at anything that moves. You're hurt and angry, and more than that, confused. He's an ass, the biggest bulge-licking cheeky asshat that the empire has ever known, and you knew this when you agreed to his stupid, stupidly-romantic advances. You knew this when you let him pluck at your heartstrings, and yet somehow, you're still surprised. At some level, you expected this, but it doesn't hurt any less. It stings worse than all the papercuts in the world, and you can't help but feel so thoroughly betrayed. 

You huff angrily as you shove the last book into its place, face flushed an indignant violet. Who needs him? You don't, that's for sure. You don't need him or his gunsmoke smell or his playful dips or his poison smirks or his ozone-flavoured kisses. You are a strong, independent seadweller and you do not need anyone, especially not Seniko Fucking Kamaya.

You tell yourself this, but somehow, it doesn't hurt any less.

~~~

Six perigees pass, and, like with most things, life has gone on. You've slowly mended yourself, glossed over the betrayal and made yourself forget about him, or at least pretend to. You force yourself not to think about him; you remain impassive any time someone mentions his name, or anytime one of his old exploits (oddly, no one seems to have heard a peep out of him yet) needs filing or someone jokes that the Renegade has turned in his gun and gone straight. You ignore these things, and after a while, it does make you feel a little better. You give your professional smiles to your coworkers, and when the library closes for the day, you gather the last of your files and carry them to the back. 

They're older ones, some things that needed revisions and the like. Standard work; tedious, especially considering that you have to stick most of them in that old file cabinet you keep in the back of your office. You set them on your desk, crouching down and unlocking the bottom cabinet. You pull, and...it sticks. You scowl. You don't have the patience for this; a cabinet, of all things, giving you shit. You give it exactly no patience yourself, giving the damned thing a sharp tug, that seadweller strength of yours into the pull. It gives, and pops out, and you view the reason why it'd been sticking. Some asshole had stuck a box near the back, in the literal least convenient location for the practicality of being able to open and close the cabinet. You have no idea how something like that could happen, exactly. You're the only one with a key, and you certainly don't remember putting it there. You sigh, and against your better judgement, you pick up the box and take a seat at your desk.

It's simple, relatively small-sized, and wrapped in deep violet paper. A bit garish for your average parcel, but frankly, you're past caring. It isn't labeled, it was in your file cabinet, and at this point, you're just kind of curious as to what's in it. You slide a painted claw through the tape sealing the top and lift the lid. As you pull the superfluous strands of tissue paper to the side, and pick up the letter, your expression rapidly changes from bored, to befuddled, to downright frantic. You put it to the side and quickly pluck the remaining object out of the box, staring at it incredulously. It's a vial, the kind that holds roughly one-thousand millilitres of liquid, and through the clear glass you can see a substance you immediately recognise. It's blood, streaking the way it does when it's been mixed with an anti-clotting agent. That isn't the notable thing, no. What really catches your eye is the hue. It's red. Not the rust-maroon colour lowbloods sported, nor the thick red of non-lusii wildlife. No, this blood is a bright scarlet, the burning red shade you'd only seen once, when you'd peeked into a classified document about a troll who'd been executed long ago. Mutant candy red; the one shade you thought you would never see, and you have a vial of it. You look down again in slight disbelief as you reread the letter, the frantic look not yet leaving your eyes.

_{Saw this in the top-clown's stash and thought of you}_  
{Red for redrom. Happy anniversary}  
-Seniko 

You can almost fucking hear him saying that to himself, laughing at how cheesy it is, and tears sting at your eyes. It's been almost seven goddamn perigees, but right now, you hurt like he'd just left yesterday.

~~~

Sweeps pass, and you're done pretending nothing happened. You think about everything from time to time. How things had been, how he'd been, the things he'd said. You work diligently during this time, never so much as taking a day off until finally, your coworkers corner you, and they _insist_. They tell you that you work too damn hard, and it's time you take a vacation, for fuck's sake. You roll your eyes and argue that they're being ridiculous, that there's nothing wrong with a bit of extra work, but in the end, you give in. Just a few days to clear your head. A few days to relax. It'll be good for you. Dezeda offers to let you stay with her during this time, but you decline. You have a better plan, or rather, you have a stupid plan. It's a whim, you aren't sure why, but you just got the urge to go out. 

That place on the southern upturn; the place with the allegedly shitty booze and attractive waitresses. It's the last place you'd be caught dead at, normally. It's a sleazebar, low even for Seniko's grimy standards, and you are pure nerves during the entire flight over to it. When you walk in, you immediately feel out of place. You are orderly, dressed orderly. You reek of order. You practically hear Seniko's voice in your fins, telling you to calm down.

 _"Act natural, babydoll. Ain't no one gonna know you ain't supposed to be here unless you go advertising it,"_ you hear, and you follow that. You remain as confident as you can muster, and take a seat at the bar at least three chairs away from anyone else. You make no eye contact. When the bartender raises an eyebrow and asks you what you want, you give him a flat tone and order something just strong enough to calm your nerves without making you stupid. Getting buzzed in a place like this by yourself is a shitty idea. Coming here in the first place was a shitty idea, but you'd rather not push it any further. You watch your drink like a hawk and sip it gingerly over the course of an hour, idly tuning in and out of the chatter around you until something catches your attention.

"--and you know how he was, damned pack-squeakbeast if I ever seen one. Gotta stash his loot somewhere, you dig? Ain't like he were needing it anymore, eh?"

It's vague, the blathering of some half-drunk oliveblood three chairs over to his brownblooded friend, but it sticks on you, and against your better judgement, you can't help but wonder. You stand, sauntering over to the pair and putting on your best inviting smile.

"What are you two on aboat, there? Talking aboat loot?" you ask, tone sugar-sweet and friendly. They're too booze-fried to care. The oliveblood grins up at you, offering a sleazy wink.

"Well there, Retzik and I was just talking on about Kam's loot. Assuming it's still out there, that is," he says, gesturing to his companion. You raise an eyebrow, flashing a glint of fang in the most playful manner you're willing to give.

"Who would this 'Kam' be, and why would you be after his loot?" you ask, and you know the answer before you even get it. It's obvious, really, but you can't help it. You have to be sure.

"Ain't you heard of him? Seniko Kamaya. The Renegade. Dude's only wanted for several mil in Ceagars," he explains, grin widening a bit.

"Dude up and vanished a few sweeps ago, ain't nobody heard from him since. People was all saying that he went straight and narrow, took his gains and hid out somewheres. However," he glances over at his partner, elbowing him faintly. The brownblood fidgets, a tad uncomfortable.

"My pal Retzik here got it on good authority that the bulgelicker bit the big one, meaning that it'd be standing to reason that his loot would still be out," he finishes with a sip of his drink, winking at you again.

"Why's a fine lady like you asking about that, anywa--"

He is cut off as you hook your claws into his shirt-collar and pluck the pistol out of the side of his pants. You aren't playing anymore, because this isn't funny. You'd know if he died. You'd _know_. You know for a fact that the newsfeeds would never shut up if anyone had managed to off him, and thus your first instinct is to be mad that this guy is spreading shit.

"Details, mossblood, and I want them _now_ ," you warn, cocking the pistol. It really should bother you that no one in the bar seems to find your actions bothersome or even unusual. No one's giving you a second glance. The oliveblood is sweating, holding his hands out and practically shitting himself in fear. After all, you're a seadweller, you're in his face, you're angry, and you're holding a gun. He's fully justified in being scared shitless.

"Hey, hey, put that thing down! Apparently s-some assassin got him, all hush-hush. Ain't no one found a body, heard it m-might have been some highblood's thing. Pissblood did piss off a lotta fish, you know. C-come on, put that thing down!" he stutters, frantic and terrified. You pull back, flashing a very forced, downright poisonous smile.

"Is that so, well, that's good to know," you say. He calms, and you really should put the firearm down. You got what you wanted, after all.

You draw it up and shoot him anyway.

"Don't call him that, shitblood," you say, then turn and saunter off, pistol in hand and drink long-abandoned. You have things to do, and your vacation just got a little more extended than you originally intended. Oh well.

Your name is Ethell Musrae and you are mad as hell.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm an angel with a shotgun,  
> fighting til' the wars won,  
> I don't care if heaven won't take me back.  
> I'll throw away my faith, babe, just to keep you safe.  
> Don't you know you're everything I have?  
> -Angel with a Shotgun, The Cab
> 
> Companion piece to OneAM-bound
> 
> http://oneamcomics.tumblr.com/


End file.
